


Wounds and Stubbornness

by AtomicPen, Dicheallach



Series: I will make it with you [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dicheallach as Vanora, F/M, Original Character(s), Tumblr Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dicheallach/pseuds/Dicheallach
Summary: Maretus gets hurt and Vanora worries perhaps a bit too much (in his opinion; she doesn't think so)





	Wounds and Stubbornness

**Author's Note:**

> a series of tumblr rp over the last several years of Dragon Age OCs and their unfolding story. archived here for ease of reading and for the enjoyment of anyone who wants to read.
> 
> find Atomic's Maretus at [molioanimatra](http://molioanimatra.tumblr.com), and Dicheallach's Vanora at [vintyvanora](http://vintyvanora.tumblr.com)

“I don’t care how tough you are. You can’t ignore that.”

A laugh started to worm its way out of his chest, but it turned into a cough. Maretus winced. His hand pressed, bruised and bloody, against the ribs on his right side. He wasn’t entirely sure if any were broken, but it wouldn’t surprise him. He didn’t  _have_ to step in-between Vanora and that overly friendly drunk; she was more than capable of taking care of herself. But, something about it rankled him more than it should have. Being a couple beers into the evening didn’t help things, either, and made him looser than he normally would be. Made him do certain things before stopping to think about them first.

He looked up at her. “No, but there’s not much else to do than bear it, is there?”

**_“_** You could always rub some dirt on it, ** _”_**  she replies dryly, one brow arched as she looks over him. He isn’t injured badly, no heavy bleeding or bad wounds that need stitches, but his knuckles are worse for wear and she has a creeping suspicion that one of his ribs is cracked.   
Sighing, she shakes her head and motions towards the door,  ** _“_** Come on. I’ve got some salve and a potion that ought to help. Unless you’d like to go for round two? ** _”_**

He winces again. “I’d rather not roll around on the ground presently, thank you.”

It hurts to stand straight, but not so badly as he can’t do it anyway. Maretus stands and follows Vanora out the door. Fingers pressing gingerly against his injured side, Maretus contemplates the wisdom of his actions. Or, rather, a distinct lack thereof. It wasn’t the first fistfight he’d ever been in, that’s for sure, but the first one he’d been in a while. He also wasn’t as young as he used to be. What had gotten into him?

“I wouldn’t want you to waste a good potion on me,” he tells Vanora as they walk. “Just some salve will be fine.”

Vanora moves slowly, allowing Maretus to set the pace once he’s on his feet. The fight seems to have started out of nowhere. One moment she’s brushing off someone who had enjoyed one too many beers, and the next Maretus’ fists are headed straight for the stranger. As ridiculous a situation as it is, a part of her that she refuses to acknowledge is secretly pleased that he thought it worth injuring himself to scare off the unwanted attention. Foolish, but flattering. Not that she has any intention of allowing those thoughts to linger.

**_“_** Don’t be foolish, Maretus. I’m a  _healer._  It’s my job to treat injuries, even the ones borne of too much alcohol. Anyway, I couldn’t stand to wait around and let you suffer unnecessarily. ** _”_**

Even the breathy chuckle he lets out smarts. Yes, it’s been quite some time since he got himself as banged up as this.

“Yes, well, it’s not your job to tend to stupid decisions. A day or two of tender living will do well to remind me why I don’t start fistfights anymore.”

Indeed, he isn’t some young buck fending off suitors (nor had he ever done the latter, even when he  _was_ a young buck). Vanora and he… they weren’t  _involved_  in any sense of the word, so that… that wasn’t the reason why. He just… He just didn’t like the drunkard. Or maybe it had just been too long since he’d been in a real fight. Drilling and sparring with soldiers was one thing, but a real scuffle was quite another.  


Vanora can’t help but chuckle, rolling her eyes at his predictable stubbornness. 

**_“_** Perhaps you would be surprised at how much of my job these days involves tending to the repercussions of peoples stupid decisions. ** _”  
_** Lacing her fingers together behind her back she sends him a sidelong glance, arching an eyebrow in question,  ** _“_** Though it does beg the question of why you thought it was a good idea to start a fistfight in the tavern. ** _”_**

As nice an idea as it is, the likelihood of him starting a fight over her honor or safety is slim to none. He’d had a few drinks, and it seemed far more likely that the drunkard had simply annoyed him enough to earn a fist to the face. Or several.

Maretus shrugs, but then regrets the motion immediately. The sharp breath he sucks in through his teeth is as involuntary as his grimace.

“I didn’t think,” he admits. “That was the first step down the road of ill-conceived decisions of the night.” Which is surprising, considering he thought he’d left those days behind him. Apparently, he hadn’t. At least with something as minor as this, he didn’t put anyone in danger but himself and perhaps the other man’s jaw.

“Thought my days of rash decisions were long over,” Maretus says, eyeing the nearing healing tower. “Though, on that particular list, this doesn’t rank very high. So  _really_ ,” he casts her a look, “salve is all I need."

The beer must still be addling his senses, because even as he says it, Maretus isn’t quite sure why he’s so insistent. It’s not as if he’s opposed to potions, and a mere salve would extend the healing time by nearly double what a good elfroot concoction would do.

It must be the alcohol that’s caused him to make such rash choices. Very unlike the Maretus she is used to, as level-headed as they come and always weighing his options carefully.

When he winces, Vanora’s frown is immediate. She doesn’t like to see people in pain, and she most certainly doesn’t like to see Maretus suffering, no matter how much he insists it will be fine. Biting back an irritated sigh, Vanora stops dead in her tracks, hands set on her hips.  


Shall we add to your list of questionable decisions of the night, or will you let me do my job? Last I checked  _I_  was the healer here. ** _”_**

Her abrupt halt doesn’t register immediately to him, so he’s suddenly two steps closer to her than he was before when he finally stops as well.

Both of them were being unreasonable, he realizes. He shouldn’t be arguing with her over a silly potion, and she didn’t need to be insisting on one. The notion that she’s overly concerned for him settles over the corners of his mind like a heavy silk, one he’s not entirely certain he wanted to lift to find what lie beneath it.

Instead, his shoulders dip a little and he exhales, relenting. “Fine,” he concedes. “Whatever your prognisis and orders, Vanora.”

A satisfied smile appears unbidden as Vanora nods once, pleased that he’s resigned himself to her care, no matter how reluctant he sounds. 

 ** _“_** Much better, ** _”_**  she replies, walking once more towards the tower. It isn’t as though they’re running low on poultice or salves, and there were plenty of potions and bandages to spare. Even if it isn’t a life-threatening series of wounds. Better to be safe than sorry.

**_"_** Are your knuckles alright? Nothing split or cracked? ** _”_**

He trails a few steps behind her, lifting the hand not pressed against his ribs to inspect it in the dim courtyard light. They’re bruised for sure, and a little bloody, but it was difficult to tell if the blood was his or the other person’s. All in all,  _he’d_  say they were all right.

“You’re the healer,” he says, perhaps a bit more sharply than he intended. “You can look at them and tell me.” Maretus doesn’t want to get into another argument with her; he has a sneaking suspicion that he’d lose again.

It isn’t even as if he minded being cared for by her. He is a soldier, a warrior. By his very nature he got hurt more frequently than most others, even from simply sparring, let alone from a true fight. But, Vanora is a good healer—she knows her trade well, and doesn’t have awful bedside manner. Some private part of him loosened by beer added that he certainly enjoyed when she fussed over him. Her hands were cool and sure and smooth against him whenever she tended any of his wounds. Especially the ones he was conscious for.

Shaking that series of thoughts off, he focuses again on the tower. They are very nearly to it, even with his slowed pace. He follows her inside, glancing around the ground floor of it and seeing the truncated staff that remained during the evening hours.

“Where do you want me?”

Vanora ignores the bite to his words, passing it off as the tone of a sore loser. It doesn’t bother her, not if it meant she’d won the argument. A quiet  _hmm_  is the only response he gets before they enter the tower. The healers on duty for the evening don’t pay much attention to them entering, giving them a once over before returning to their work. Only one of them, the youngest amongst their group, lets her gaze linger a little longer than is considered polite. 

 ** _“_** You can take a seat over there, ** _”_**  she replies, motioning to a chair against the wall near the cots.

Without giving him a second glance she beelines for the wall of medicines, humming quietly to herself as she selects the right poultice and potion. Lots of elfroot to speed the healing, and a little something to help take the edge off the pain. Nothing terribly strong, not something she’d give someone truly injured, but just strong enough that he’d be able to walk around and breathe without wincing. Grabbing an armful of bandages, she returns to his side, setting out all her materials on the table.

He watches her work, the pain in his side momentarily fading to the background. She’s efficient and sure with every movement, and he derives a certain kind of enjoyment out of seeing her in her element. Idly, he wonders how many years she’s been practicing the healing craft. For whatever reason, he doesn’t think she’s been doing it all her life. She’s very good at it, but it just doesn’t seem like it’s the only thing she’s devoted time and study to—especially considering that she’s told him she learned healing while on the road. He wonders what she did before becoming a healer for the Inquisition, and what she might return—or move on—to in the future.

Maretus doesn’t sit immediately in the chair she’s directed him toward, instead taking the time to unbuckle his sword belt and gingerly drape it over the back of the seat.

Before her attention turns back to him, he unbuckles In a quiet voice meant only for her, he notes, “One of your healers seemed particularly interested when we came in.”

Arranging all her materials on the table next to Maretus, Vanora glances over towards the door. The younger woman is still there, but keeping a respectable distance and politely not staring at them. Vanora watches her a moment, the young woman almost pointedly keeping her back to them. Perhaps she had realized that she was not so subtle after all in her attention.

 ** _“_** Indeed… ** _”_**  she replies, turning her attention back to Maretus,  ** _“_** perhaps she was entranced by your rugged good looks and couldn’t bring herself to look away immediately. ** _”_**

Strangely, she finds herself unsettled at the idea of the young woman eying up Maretus. There was no logical reason for it; she knew he was handsome, if not a little rough around the edges. Why shouldn’t the young woman stare? Forcing the thoughts away, she turns fully towards Maretus, motioning for him to hold out his hands.

He follows where her gaze had been as he holds out his hands to her, palms down. The knuckles sting a little, so it tells him that they probably are a bit scuffed up. Hitting people was easy enough, but without proper wrappings or protection, it often hurt the puncher as much as the punched. Luckily, he has experience in fistfights, but that doesn’t mean he’d escape unscathed.

A laugh starts within him, but it peters out halfway through from pain shooting through his abdomen again. It’s been years since he had a rib injury, and it’s getting pretty old pretty quick. Hopefully he can make it even longer until the next time he has a rib injury.

“Rugged good looks?” he echoes. “I find that unlikely. She’s probably wondering why you’re tending to me yourself rather than just leaving me with one of your subordinates.”

 ** _“_** Oh, I don’t know, ** _”_**  she replies, lips pursed as she looks over his knuckles,  ** _“_** Leah seems to be quite fond of the soldiers. ** _”_**

Ignoring the twinge of irrational feeling that is suspiciously similar to jealousy, Vanora’s fingers ghost over his knuckles, lips drawn into a frown. Nothing  _appears_  broken, but they’re already swelling, split in a few places and bruised. 

She grabs a warm, wet cloth, sending an apologetic look his way,  ** _“_** This won’t feel nice, ** _”_**  she warns, doing her best to be gentle as she starts to dab and wipes away the blood on his knuckles. Vanora rinses out the washcloth several times, returning to his knuckles until she is satisfied that they are clean enough and she can assess the damage.

Maretus snorts, but it quickly turns into a hiss as she wipes down his hands. She’s gentle, that much he can tell, but it still stings quite a bit. Nothing he hasn’t felt in the past, but it doesn’t quite diminish the abruptness of the pain.

“I don’t think I’m her type,” Maretus says, a bit flatly. “A bit too… dark for all these southerners.”

“Besides,” he goes on, the word sliding into another small hiss as Vanora gives his knuckles one last wipe and inspecting them. “I’m not really looking for that kind of company.” His gaze slides over to where the young healer was, then back at Vanora, catching her eyes. “And, I’m pretty sure I’m old enough to be her father.”

Frowning at every clear indication of his discomfort, Vanora turns to select the right salve she’s brought over. As her attention shifts away from Maretus, Leah comes into her line of sight again. The girl hasn’t moved far from her original post, nor has she made any indication of watching them. Still, Maretus is right. He likely  _is_  old enough to be her father. It eases the tension in her chest that she hadn’t realized was there.

 ** _“_** Yes, I suppose you’re right on that front. Much too old for her. ** _”_**

Her tone is lighter now, teasing him as the ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of her lips,  ** _“_** Perhaps she finds your skin tone a novelty, something unique and interesting in a sea of fair skin. Different is not so bad. ** _”_**

Opening the jar of elfroot salve, she scoops out a generous amount, carefully distributing it over his raw knuckles, starting with his right hand. It is cool from the temperature outside, and she knows that the elfroot will help ease the pain and speed the healing process.

The coolness of the salve seeps quickly into his skin, and he lets out a small sigh. He may not  _need_  the elfroot, but it certainly feels good.

“I’m not so sure I like the idea of being exotic eye candy.” He watches her work, the way her pale fingers hold his hands to administer the salve. “I’ve never been one to pursue such… fancies.”

He pauses for a moment, then draws his eyebrows together.  _Much too old for her_. Just how old did she think he was? Maretus was only in his mid-thirties, not some decrepit old man. He peers up at her, gauging Vanora’s age. She is younger than him, of that much he is certain, but he’s not comfortable in guessing just how much. It could be a few years, it could be a handful.

Not that it matters. Her age in relation to his is of no nevermind to him.

Maretus shakes of that trail of thought and focuses on what Vanora’s doing instead.

She laughs then, smiling as he utters the phrase "exotic eye candy.” Vanora had never thought of him as  _exotic_ , but she knows that most everyone else in the South must find him terribly unique. To her, he looked like home, a comfortingly familiar face in the sea of Southerners. His skin, his hair, his features all strongly remind her of the people she had spent the better part of her life with. 

 ** _“_** There are worse things to be. ** _”_**

Her laughter draws Leah’s attention, a questioning look on her features. Before Vanora can catch her, she turns away, making herself scarce and heading upstairs to check on the lingering patients staying overnight.

**_“_** I believe you, ** _”_**  she says, running her thumb once more over his knuckles to ensure an even layer of salve before she wipes her hands off on a clean towel. Turning away a moment, she begins to unravel a bandage, ready to wrap his hands before addressing his ribs. That will require a more delicate touch.

Vanora bends over his hands to wrap them in bandages, which Maretus would have objected to, but his attention is on the space the healer—Leah, Vanora said her name was—occupied only moments before. None of the other healers had given them a second glance beyond an initial cursory one, except for her. Maretus wonders about that, and privately considers that perhaps Vanora hadn’t been too far off in her teasing about attraction. He isn’t interested, but it is something to maybe keep an eye out for.

Leah gone from sight, Maretus drags his gaze away and to Vanora’s lowered head. Her dark hair is swept back in a braid, as usual, framing her face. There is something of a familiarity to her, the way she holds herself, the particular cadence of her speech. It’s strange for him to think that he’s grown so close and—dare he say— _attached_  to someone that their mannerisms became second nature to him. She’s a constant for him, in a life that hasn’t had much constancy for a decade. It strikes him as she’s still focused on finishing up bandaging his hands.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice surprisingly soft, though it’s not really in response to anything she’s said.

Maretus’ words surprise her and Vanora’s hands pause for a moment before she continues her task. A soft smile on her face, she glances up at him, suddenly acutely aware of just how close their faces are. When she looks up her eyes lock onto his, the hints of amber still visible in the firelight.

 ** _“_** You’re welcome, ** _”_**  she says quietly, though her knee-jerk reaction is to insist there’s nothing to thank her for. And there isn’t, not really, it is her job after all. Though she doubts she would have fussed so much over relatively non-life threatening injuries were it someone other than Maretus.

She drags her gaze away from him, breaking eye contact to knot the bandage wrapped around his hand. Straightening up, she takes a moment to assess her work, before nodding to herself. Vanora eyes him up, lips pursed in thought for a moment before she speaks.

 ** _“_** You’ll need to take your shirt off so I can see your ribs. Just to be safe. ** _”_**

This is the moment he knew was coming, and the one he dreads. Having cracked a rib before, he knows exactly just how unpleasant moving in general is, let alone trying to maneuver a shirt on or off.

It takes him some time, and he has to pause twice to grit his teeth through the pain, but eventually Maretus wrangles off his tunic. A dark bruise has bloomed in a straight line across his right side, presumably over the injured rib. He drapes his shirt overtop his belt on the back of the chair, and tries not to breathe too deeply. He doesn’t have the energy to feel awkwardly exposed beneath her clinical gaze, and besides, she’s seen him in similar states of undress before.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he says, haltingly. “I’ve had a… cracked rib before, and this feels pretty similar.”

A light sheen of sweat beads across his forehead, and he wipes it away with his left hand, not being keen on moving his right side much at all. “You’re the healer though,” he says for the second time that night, though there is no malice or sharpness to his words this time. “So I’ll leave it up to you.”

Vanora keeps her hands at her sides, though her initial reaction is to reach out and help him take his tunic off. But he’s capable of doing it, and somehow that feels like crossing a boundary, even if it is something she would do for a patient. Somehow it’s different with Maretus.

When he’s settled again her eyes rove over his torso, taking in the quickly darkening bruise on his rib before trailing off to visually trace the scars on his ribs. She wonders absently how he’d gotten them, and if he’d even tell her if she asked. The scars don’t end there, shimmering lines of scar tissue dotting his arms as well. She had seen the scars on his hands and cheek, but never these. Some of them look particularly unpleasant, much thicker than the tiny little slivers on his knuckles.

Tearing her attention away from his arms and forcing it back to his ribs, she frowns,  ** _“_** I’m sorry; I wish I didn’t have to do this, ** _”_**  she says, tone apologetic as she squats down in front of him so she is eye level with his chest. Reaching out, fingers as gentle as they can be, she traces the area around the bruise, feeling for any bumps that would suggest another break before ghosting her fingers over the bruise itself, applying as little pressure as possible while still feeling out for a break.

His eyes stray up toward the top of the tower, the ceiling lost in the dark beyond the sconces on the floors above them. She’s gentle, but it still makes him clench his jaw to keep from wincing. Maretus holds still as stone—or as close as he can—while she works her fingers along his side, and tries to focus on anything other than the pain.

Vanora’s fingers are cool against him, as he remembered, though he wondered how much of that this time is from the elfroot still clinging to her hands. To accompany that, there’s a sweet smell drifting around him, and he suspects its from her. If it’s what she normally smells like or the medicine she’s applied to him, he’s not entirely sure, but his guess would be it’s a combination of the two. It’d be quite pleasant, were it not for the throbbing in his side beneath her hands.

He breathes slowly and evenly, if a bit shallowly; deep breaths simply hurt too much, even with his guess that it’s just a crack and not a true break.

“Well,” he asks, side expanding against her hands, “how bad does it feel on the outside?”

To his credit, there is no hissing or sharp intake of breath to indicate his discomfort, nor does he flinch away from her fingers despite the fact that she’s sure he would gladly escape her touch right then. Up close she can see the faint sheen of sweat covering him, making his skin glisten.

 ** _“_** I concur with your estimation–not broken, but I think it is fractured, ** _”_**  she replies, hands moving away from the bruise to double check the other side. Her fingers slow as they pass over one of the thicker scars on his chest, brows knitting together in a mixture of focus and curiosity,  ** _“_** How did you get all of these? ** _”_**  she asks absently, barely realizing that she’s voiced her own silent question.

Blinking in surprise at her own carelessness, she sets to pressing gently against the other side of his ribs, unsurprised to find that none of them appear terribly worse for wear. A few light bruises from a wayward blow, but nothing remotely as severe as his other side.

His skin prickles as her hands ghost over him. “I didn’t get them all at once, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s easier to talk and remain still now that her hands are drifting over his uninjured side. Hearing her confirmation that it’s not a break makes him ease up a little, as well. It won’t be fun to heal, and it’ll probably take much longer than if it were a break, but it won’t hurt nearly as bad.

“Most of them came from a life spent training to fight. After a certain skill level, you get to play with live steel, and that brings consequences. Some of them are from actual battles and skirmishes.” Her fingers skim over a thick scar on his left, one that he remembers very acutely receiving. That particular one is a souvenir from defending the Tevinter-Nevarra border from Wildcats—a guerrilla soldier, not an animal. They were always thorns in his side as commander of the Perivantium. One of them turned out to be a bit more literal thorn in his side than others.

“I got that nasty one fighting near Nevarra,” he says. “I’m sure you could probably guess, caring for so many soldiers, but the minor the wound the more likely it is to have happened while training.” A wry smile tugs at his mouth. “We like to save the real ones for war.”

The answers aren’t all that surprising. He’s correct in assuming that she’s seen enough injuries while with the Inquisition to know that the smaller wounds are more likely to have been caused by sparring and training rather than an actual fight. It’s odd, trying to conjure up an image of a much younger Maretus getting to practice for the first time with steel and beginning his collection of nicks and scars.

**_“_** Nevarra? I went there once, many years ago. I suspect my sojourn was much more peaceful than yours. Even with the bandits. ** _”_**

It had been quite a long time ago, years in fact. Perhaps seven, if memory served. She had waited a few years before she dared to return to the northern countries of Thedas, eager to avoid drawing the attention of any spies that her parents might have hired to keep an eye out on her. She’d spent a while there, though most of her time was on the road as she traveled to Rivain. Their fascination with the dead had always made her uneasy, even when she was only passing through, and she had done her best to keep as much distance between herself and the Grand Necropolis as possible.

Satisfied that there’s no damage to the left side of his chest, she draws back, fingers passing once more over the thick scar, before she stands up again,  ** _“_** How old were you? ** _”_**

Her question surprises him enough that he looks down from the ceiling at her. “For that one?” Maretus squints a bit, recalling. How long after he was promoted to Legator Legarem was he along the border? Or was that when Reilius was still Legator? It was difficult to tell sometimes, since Reilius gave him full responsibility in everything but name the moment he looked as if he’d settled in.

“I think I was about twenty-three, if memory serves. Still young and stupid,” he adds. “As opposed to older and stupid.” His laugh once again is made shallow and short, cut off with an involuntary groan. Automatically, his hand comes up to rest gingerly on his injured side, fingers spread across either side of the long bruise.

“I can’t imagine you learned your healing in Nevarra,” he comments, eyes catching hers in the dim light.

Were they not sitting there handling the results of his stupidity, Vanora would have rolled her eyes at the idea that Maretus could be old and stupid. She doesn’t imagine he’s  _that_  old anyway. Certainly not a twenty-year-old, but surely younger than 40. Unless she has lost all ability to gauge age.

Even though his laugh is cut off when his ribs doubtlessly protest, Vanora cannot help but smile, “Oh, I don’t know. You’re not usually stupid. And you can’t be  _that_  old.”

She should wrap his side, put on some elfroot salve to help calm the area even though the injuries were internal. Instead, she finds herself instead leaning back against the table, trying to remember just where along the line she’d picked up healing.

“Hardly,” she replies with a smirk, “the only thing I learned there was how glad I am that we burn our dead, not build cities for them.”

A quiet  _hmm_  is the only answer he receives immediately, Vanora tapping a finger against her lips in thought, “At first it was just practical little things. How to handle scrapes and fevers, that sort of thing. There was a woman in Rivain who knew quite a lot, and when I was visiting she taught me a thing or two.”

Maretus nods along with her assessment of Nevarran death practices—or, at least to the little he knew of them. He’d studied what he could when factions started raiding Tevinter’s southern border in earnest, but he was by no means a scholar on the culture. But, her answer as to where she did have healer training surprised him a little.

“Rivain,” he echoes a smile pulling at one side of his mouth. “Is it as beautiful as I’ve always heard it is?” He’d always wanted to visit there, even before he left Tevinter on his own, and was a little jealous she’d been there.

It’s a little surprising that she stands off to the side, chatting with him now. With how she argued with him over a potion, he would have thought that she’d make sure his injury was taken care of right off the bat. His small smile turned a bit sly. Perhaps this was her way of conceding that he turned out to be right in that it wasn’t  _quite_  so bad, after all. He’d take it.

More than happy to reminisce for a moment on her time in Rivain, Vanora nods her assent,  ** _“_** As beautiful as you’ve heard. Perhaps even more so when you can see it in person. There have been no other sights to rival it. Though I have loved the dense forests in the South, Rivain is breathtaking. ** _”_**

Life was a little wilder in Rivain, the culture more vibrant and free than the other countries she had visited in her life. For a country that was  _technically_  Andrastian, it’s Circles were a far cry from any that she had seen in the South, and the strictness of Tevinter or Orlesian society was nowhere to be found there.

The sly smile on Maretus’ face drags her out of her reverie, her eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion,  ** _“_** Don’t look so smug, Maretus. You’re still drinking the potion. Even if the rib isn’t broken. ** _”_**

That turns his mouth downward. Of course she knew exactly what he was thinking—this was  _Vanora_ , after all, and she was very good at… Well, she was very good just in general, he internally conceded.

Maretus lets out a resigned sigh and wince as he holds his hand out, motioning with his fingers. “Fine. Just give it and let me be done with it.”

He lowers the arm that had been cradling his side slowly, hoping to mitigate the pain. “I’ll be happier once salve on it,” he tells her. “I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but I’ve always felt like it helps more than potions do.” While he waits for her to hand him a potion, he continues along their other conversational vein—one that is more pleasant than her overriding him in medical treatment.

“It seems most of your experiences traveling have been more pleasant than mine. Not a bad thing,” Maretus adds, with a soft grunt of pain. “I’d sooner not see the dense forests of Orlais again.”

Satisfied, she hands him the potion resting beside her to drink, picking up the tub of salve once more and waiting for him to drink the potion down. Of course, her travels weren’t all rainbows and happy memories. Getting to and from Rivain had been a bit of an experience.

 ** _“_** They are certainly easy to get lost in if you don’t know the way. I almost got lost in the mountains of eastern Rivain. I went to see the eastern coast and nearly never found my way back.  _That_  is where I met the woman who taught me so much. ** _”_**

Taking the empty potion bottle from him, she sets it in its spot and motions for him to shift his arm out of the way so she can apply the last of the salve.

**_”_** Did many people pick fights with you on the road? ** _”_**

At her command, he lifts his arm, gritting his teeth as he does so. The motion causes jolts of pain to go through his side, so much that he has to bend his elbow and rest his hand against the back of his head rather than simply hold it up. He does his best to focus on her question, to try and use it to divert attention away from the pain. It almost works.

“Ah—yes, and no. I worked as a guard for a lot of, a lot of merchant caravans,” he responds, haltingly. “Which are always hot targets for bandits. On my own, well, getting lost in the forest proved to be more trouble than a couple bandits on the open road.”

 _The open road_.No, bandits had never been his worst enemy on the road—that had been paranoia. The worst time was when he’d first left Tevinter and was making his way through Nevarra. If she’d seen him then, she wouldn’t have recognized him. He’d lost nearly three stone of weight those first few years, and though he’d since gained it all back, those days still haunt him at times. His week lost in the Emerald Graves was more like a pleasure tour, comparatively; it was easy to forage and hunt for things in the forest. Not so the vast plains and steppes.

Vanora brings him out of his thoughts as she applies the first bit of salve, and the sharp coolness of it makes him suck in a surprised—and pained—breath.

It seems a good fit for him, guarding merchant caravans. She had certainly benefitted from people filling the same role on her own travels, those men and occasional women who kept an eye out for bandits or those with less than good intentions on the road. They had been yet another benefit of traveling with people, rather than on her own. 

 ** _“_** I’m sure the merchant caravans were glad to have you. I always appreciated it when one of the merchants hired a guard or two. Better to have a guard and never need them than to need them and not have them. ** _”_**

Eager to finish and bandage him up so that Maretus can set his arm down, she scoops out the last of the elfoot salve, applying it with a light touch so that it covers up all the bruised area. It makes her frown, hearing the sudden inhalation that belies discomfort. If there was some magic to make it all go away she would happily use it…though it would rather ruin her cover.

Grabbing the bandage, she winds it carefully around his ribs, securing it with a knot and stepping back to admire her handiwork. Lips pursed as she assesses him, she nods, satisfied.

**_“_** Do you want help getting your tunic back on? ** _”_**

She knows he’s perfectly capable of it, he’d taken it off after all, but the less jostling and bumping of his ribs the better.

“No, I can get it.”

Yet, he stands there a moment, not moving to pick up his tunic, looking at her. He’s not sure if he’s trying to find something, or if he’s just struck by the moment; he never thought he’d find himself as close to anyone as he did her.

Realizing he’s staring for far too long, Maretus clears his throat a bit and turns to pick up his shirt and to cover any signs of embarrassment.

“You didn’t have to do all that for me,” he says, working the tunic over his head with a little difficulty. He settles it carefully overtop the bandages she’s put on him, then proceeds to buckle his sword belt back on. Still, he doesn’t look back at her. “But… thank you.”

When he hesitates, not making any move to reach for his shirt, she arches a brow in silent question. Had he changed his mind? Or maybe he was taking a moment to brace himself for all the movement and discomfort that it would cause. Whatever the reason, he seems to snap back to the present and shimmy his shirt back on. The bandages on his chest and hands don’t move, secured as they are, and Vanora finds herself quite satisfied.

As he finishes getting dressed she begins to tidy up her workspace, gathering the empty container of salve to clean out and reuse, and wiping her hands clean on a towel. Turning to face him again she smiles, nodding.

 ** _“_** I know, and you’re welcome nonetheless. Consider it putting my heart and mind at ease. I feel better knowing that I did my best to help. ** _”_**

A bemused smile curves across his mouth when he finally turns to her again. “It’s a wonder I survived so many years without the personal touch of an entire organization’s head healer,” he teases. She really  _didn’t_  have to tend to him personally, he tells himself. He didn’t need tending at all in his opinion; it just eased his discomfort and sped up the process a little, but not much more than that.

When he was back in the Legion, he could have had an entire regiment of healers at his beck and call—he could have had his own personal healer attending him at all times, if he wanted. While he did have the head healer attend him when he was severely wounded, he normally forewent healing altogether, and if he couldn’t avoid it, then made more use of the non-mage healers the Legion retained in its ranks. Even still, having been served before by a personal, Legion-trained healer didn’t feel as comfortable or as thorough as Vanora, even though he was sure the Legion healer would have had much more technical and specialized training.

“I really,” he starts, then stops short. He really… what? Unsure of how exactly to finish his thought, Maretus shakes his head. “Good night, Vanora.”

Again, he lets his gaze linger on her a little overlong, before giving her a shallow bow (and a wince), and then making his way out of the tower, back to the barracks and his bed.

 ** _“_** No need to be sassy, ** _”_**  she shoots back, smiling despite his jest. He is, of course, perfectly capable of looking after himself. He’d made it this far, after all. And he hadn’t had, as he so cleverly pointed out, an entire organization’s head healer. Though she imagines that he’s had access to a good bunch of healers in the Legion.

Arching a brow at his slightly confused goodnight, she smiles and nods.

 ** _“_** Good night, Maretus. Don’t do anything too physically demanding this week! I don’t want you ruining all my work! ** _”_**

Laughing to herself when he’s out of sight, she shakes her head and sets to cleaning up. Leah, in her distracted state, had left a bit of a mess behind, and Vanora can’t stand to leave a mess behind at the end of the day. 


End file.
